Baby Dreams

“Okay,” she said absently, gazing about herself.

A city girl all the way, Cami had been expecting a nice brick building swarming with experience-toughened cops who would be crusty but ready to hear the truth if it were presented correctly. One call to some sort of centralized information bank, one check of the picture with the arrest warrant for Billie Joe, one look at Cami herself in the light, and this whole fabrication of her supposed criminal career would crumble into the dust. Apologies all around. Someone would drive her back to her car and send her on her way. And it would be all over.

No such luck.

“This is it?” she asked in wonder as he led her through the thickening snowbanks into the small adobe building set right against the street. She looked to the right and to the left and saw no more than three or four small buildings set back along the side of the road, one of which had a sign that read Country Store and had a bus stop designation hanging out front. The place was barely a crossroads, much less a town.

“This is your police station?” Standing in the middle of the floor, she looked from side to side at the desk, the table and two chairs, the television set, the small, old-fashioned cell in the corner of the room. “Where’s the rest of it?”

The only sign that he’d heard her was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as he came in behind her, shrugging out of his jacket. With one quick, deft movement, he unlocked the handcuffs and removed them, setting them down on the desk beside the hat he had just removed, as well, then pulled up a chair. “Sit down and we’ll get the paperwork started,” he suggested.

“This looks like something right out of an old Western movie,” she said, still looking around nervously and rubbing her wrists. “A relic.”

“It is,” he told her calmly, dropping into the desk chair and pulling a typewriter into position. “It’s been here since 1889.”

“That’s over a hundred years.” She tucked her arms in close and shivered, as though the ghosts of all that history were treading on her space.

“You got it.”

Looking down, she eyed the ancient machine he was adjusting. “Is that why you still use a typewriter? Just to keep in line with the historical accuracy of the place?” She pointed to the television in the corner of the room. “In which case, that’s certainly an anachronism you ought to get rid of.”

He gestured toward the chair once more and said with cool formality, “I still use a typewriter because the good people of this little town can’t afford to buy me a computer.”

She sat down with a thump and glared at him, annoyed that he was ordering her around, even if silently, and even more annoyed with herself for letting him get away with it. “I guess that means they probably got you dirt cheap, too, doesn’t it?”

He looked her full in the face and his voice hardened. “It does. But no matter what I get paid, I’m still the sheriff. That means I’m the law here, lady.” It was something he was going to have to remember around this woman. “I think it’s time you stopped and thought that over.”

She did, but only for a moment. She resented his tone, and she told him so.

He gave her a long-suffering look. “Okay, if you want to argue about every detail of this arrest, we can do that. But that will only delay filling out the forms I need before I call Santa Fe and get to the bottom of this.”

She knew he was right, but she could hardly help complaining. After all, this was a case of mistaken identity. How dare he keep her here this way? “Meanwhile I get to cool my heels here in a jail cell?” she said, looking over her shoulder at the bars and shuddering lightly.

His gaze darkened as he looked at her. Her hair was floating around her face in a cloud of silver and gold that set off the crystal blue of her eyes. He’d noticed the shudder and he assumed it was part of her act. He had to admit, she was damn good. “Look at it this way—it’ll keep you out of trouble for an hour or so.”

Her chin rose and she glared at him. “I don’t need to be kept out of trouble.”

He shrugged, turning away. “It’s pretty obvious you need a keeper of some kind,” he muttered.

“Hey, I don’t like the sound of that.” He didn’t seem to care, so she got tougher. “What are you, some kind of sexist pig?” she said pointedly.

That got his attention. He turned back and stared at her, his eyes hard as tinted glass. “Excuse me?” he said icily.

She turned down the corners of her mouth and lifted her chin. “That was a purely sexist comment.”

He considered her words for a moment, tilting his head to the side, before shaking it slowly. “No, I don’t think so,” he drawled at last. “I would have said the same to any criminal, male or female.”

She flushed, but luckily he’d already turned away again, so he didn’t see it.

“You’re the one who’s going to look ridiculous when it all comes out and you see that I was absolutely right,” she told him quickly. “I am Cami Bishop. I’ve never even heard of this Billie Joe person.” He didn’t respond, and she tried again. “Who am I going to have to see to get compensated for this outrage? I’m going to sue the pants off you and your town.”

“You can certainly try,” he said casually, taking papers and pens out of his drawer and setting up for the paperwork. “It’s within your rights.” Looking up, he met her gaze. “But that would mean you’d have to come back and hang around here for weeks, maybe months.”

She made a face. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be worth it.”

For the first time, she really took a look at the man who was causing her so much trouble. His dark hair was thick and worn a little too long in back and lightly touched with silver at the temples, as though a few snowflakes still clung to him from the storm outside. There was a primitive strength to him. His face was handsome in a hard, emotionless way, dark, all granite planes and angles, with deep grooves that almost made him look bitter. Something about him fit the place, though. He might have been here in 1889, back in cowboy-and-Indian days. And she wouldn’t know which category to place him in. With his dark skin and wind-weathered look, he could have fit in either one.

Sheriff Rafe Lonewolf was what the sign on his desk called him. She could see traces of Native American ancestry in his face, but other things were mixed in with it. He looked tough, as though he were used to using his fists as well as his brain to get himself out of trouble. She searched his expression, but there was no humor, no empathy. Was this just the mask he put on to do his job, she wondered? Or was this the real thing?

“If I do decide to file, I guess you’re the one I’ll have to name in my unlawful arrest lawsuit, huh?” she said brightly, wondering if she could get a rise out of him and not stopping to realize that might not be such a good idea. “I hope your little town can afford that judgment.”

She watched him for a moment, but there was no response, no change in his expression. So what now? Should she say something more impertinent, try to get his goat? Probably not. But how was she going to get out of this? A gust of wind rattled the windows and she pulled her chair up a little closer, glad that at least she was out of the storm.

But that wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy her for long. “When do I get my phone call?” she asked, looking around the room restlessly.

He glanced at her, then looked away. “As soon as we get this paperwork out of the way.”

“I think I’ll use my call to order a pizza,” she quipped, leaning back as though she were sure of herself. “By the time we get the paperwork done, you’ll realize you made a big mistake and I’ll be ready to get on my way. A nice hot pizza would hit the spot about then.” She smiled. So there, her expression said, even if her mouth didn’t actually form the words.

He looked at her balefully as he rolled a form into the typewriter. How had he gotten so lucky, anyway? It had been a nice quiet night. In fact, it had been a nice, quiet life since he’d taken this job out here in the sticks. He liked it that way. He’d had enough of the rough stuff down in the city to last him a lifetime. Peace and quiet were slowly healing a lot of wounds he’d collected down there.

But something told him it couldn’t last. Not now that Billie Joe Calloway had hit town and entered his jurisdiction.

He had no doubt that he had the right person in custody. After all, how many beautiful blondes in green Mustangs would be cruising through Clear Creek during any given space of time? Not many. This area was so out-of-the-way, they didn’t even have a real gas station—just the pump at Gray Eagle’s farm. Not too many tourists cruised through here. That was why he’d barely paid any attention to the bulletin that Billie Joe might be in the area when it had first come in that morning.

No, the idea that two blondes in identical cars might drive through stretched credulity a bit past the breaking point. And the prospect of having two of them in one weekend would be more than he could handle, he thought with a surge of humor he was careful not to show to her.

He glanced at her, letting himself look her over for a moment. He had to admit she didn’t look much like the usual criminals he’d dealt with in the past. There was a softness to her they usually didn’t show. Her expensive clothes and jewelry didn’t impress him. He’d arrested women before who’d looked like they belonged in Beverly Hills. But there was something about those blue eyes. They flashed with annoyance, but not with craft. And the rest of her—he only allowed himself one quick, cursory look and his immediate response served to warn him not to do that again. Her body was as pretty as her face, curves that nicely strained the fabric of her clothes and sent a rush up his thermometer. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He couldn’t let her get to him. He looked away, hardening his face even more, determined not to let her know she was in any way attractive in the cold eyes of the law.

He typed in a few spaces, then sighed softly and sat back. “Name?” he asked, though he knew it was probably going to lead to another argument. The night stretched out long and unpleasant before him.

“Cami Bishop,” she said smartly. “Cambria Shasta Bishop, if you want to get formal about it.” She added her date and place of birth. “Unmarried.”

He nodded, typing in the information she was giving, though he knew he was going to have to fill out another form with what he assumed was the more accurate version. The warrant said, though she was currently unmarried, she’d been married three times. He glanced at her from under lowered brows, wondering about such a young woman with three marriages behind her, but he couldn’t see any evidence of her past on her face. In fact, she looked far too open and trusting to be the sort of man-eating babe the warrant portrayed. But looks were deceiving. He’d learned that lesson before.

“Occupation?”

She hesitated. For some reason, it was always hard to explain that one to people. “I publish a fern journal,” she said at last.

His mouth twisted with obvious annoyance. “You mean a foreign journal?” he asked, looking at her.

She shook her head and held back a sudden urge to giggle. “No. I told you I wasn’t from Texas, didn’t I? The word is fern. You know, those green plants that grow in shady forests.”

“Oh. Botany.” He glanced at her linen suit and soft leather shoes and frowned skeptically. “You don’t look much like a nature freak,” he noted coolly.

“Oh, I’m not,” she assured him quickly, amused by the thought herself. “I don’t actually go out and tromp in the woods or anything like that.”

He looked slightly pained. “Of course not.”